A Soldier's Heart
by Zaxarus
Summary: Watch the adventures of an old soldier at the edge of great events. The events of DA1-Beginning only.
1. Chapter 1 Family ties

**Family ties**

_Denerim – Market Guardhouse, one month before the battle of Ostagar_

The market's noise was kept away from the guardhouse by the thick oaken door. Kylon had sent his soldiers away to have some quiescent minutes with his guest. Biting on his smelly cigar the elder sergeant of the city watch concentrated on pouring his Antivan brandy into two old and very-used chalices, reaching one of them to his cousin. He wiped a strain of his brown hair out of his face and raised his own cup.

"Clear eye and sure hand." They clinked their cups and took a deep gulp, the alcohol burning in their gullets like fire. "And that the Maker this time kills only the bastards and let the good lads live another day."

His counterpart nodded slowly. Both knew that almost always the best were killed, virtues like honor and bravery being no shield against an arrow or a blade in the darkness. Kylon could only hope that his cousin would be lucky again. They stayed silent, drinking some brandy now and then, polluting the air with the smoke of thick cigars. He scrutinized his guest, the thick-skulled head with short hair on it, many grey hairs mixing with the light blonde, broad shoulders and muscular arms denying giving in to age, grey-misty eyes in a face tempered by years in military service. Kylon smiled shortly as he remembered that his cousin was only four years older than himself.

Raised in a large family of soldiers and city guards they had not only been cousins but best friends. More than once his cousin had saved him from being beaten up by elder boys and he had shown him how to hold a sword the right way as Kylon was ten. His cousin – with only fourteen being already a match in height and strength to most men - had been working at Mender's sawmill to get the coin for his first short sword. It had still a place of honor in Kylon's small cottage.

"You'll watch them, Kylon? The old lady and the lad's family I mean." The dark voice only held a hint of concern.

Kylon nodded slightly. "Sure I will. With your pension they'll be alright anyway and the 'old lady' is feisty enough to kick me in the pants if I only dare to treat her like a flower." Both men chuckled. "Have you told her of …?"

His cousin shook his head. "I have too. Naturally she knows that Jonny is going with the army, but …"

A creaking guffaw evaded Kylon's throat. "But you're angst-ridden."

He snarled not amused. "I'm not. And I was at least brave enough to marry someone. Not like some other pussycats."

Kylon grinned. "You know, duty always duty. No time for pilfering the beauties."

"Ha, only lame excuses. You only fear that your bastards won't respect you anymore if they saw you being henpecked."

Snorting Kylon responded. "It is hard enough to get any discipline into this heap of worthless noblemen's bastards. They argue more about how to wring more money out of their father's pockets then they spend time in training their weapon skills. Sometimes I wonder if I could hire you for some of your infamous weapon drills."

"Wouldn't do any good. They're too frightened to draw a weapon if it is not against some unarmored peasant. And surely there would be some nobleman storming the guardhouse crying about how his worthless son was wounded in the guard duty. Your post, your funeral." It had been an often and well-liked conversation theme how Kylon had been covered with worthless bastards of Denerim's higher classes, illegal children who had to be sheltered somehow from honest labor.

Rising from his chair he put down his cup on the table and went to Kylon, his six feet nine inches towering above his not so small or frail cousin. He dragged Kylon into a bear hug, the sergeant feeling as if some of his ribs would be cracked. "Take care of the City, Kylon. I don't want to come back with all lying in ruins."

_Denerim – Market Place, one month before the battle of Ostagar_

As he passed the market place he looked around, inhaling the smell and the noises as if he would never again witness them. And perhaps he was right about it. He always had trusted his gut feelings and this time …

He rubbed the scar on his right hand. It itching had always been a sign of trouble. Twenty-five years he had been in the army of Denerim, most of the time under the command of Arl Urien. In contrast to his worthless son the Arl had always been an honorable commander and Arl Urien had personally thanked him for fulfilling his duty one year before as he left the army at last. It should have been the start of calm live with his wonderful wife, his children and grandchildren.

Mildred. He really could never understand his luck. Knowing her from childhood he had loved her since … he didn't know. After joining the army on his eighteenth birthday he had taken his hand money and all the courage he could muster and went to her parents. At first they had been defensive, speaking about his young age and him being a soldier. Certainly they had hoped her daughter would someday take over her parent's store and marry a nice storekeeper. But Mildred, sweet sixteen with dark blonde hair and the sea-green eyes of her mother simply went to his side, took his trembling hand and silently watched her parents until they gave in.

Three years later she gave birth to their son Jonny, that day being the proudest in his whole life, even surpassing the moment he was promoted to the rank of weapon-sergeant. Two daughters followed and to his delight they were of remarkable resemblance to their mother, only their tallness and hair color betraying who their father was.

Silently he opened the door, only to be greeted by whoops of joy from Erin and Kyla, Jonny's three-year-old twin-daughters. Their father sat at the table with his wife and sisters, all trying not to show any sorrow about the incoming departure. He was a bit ashamed about making sure that Jonny would be stationed at Lothering together with Corporal Henken, but …

As Mildred filled the plates with a hearty stew she looked shortly but intensely at her husband. A dimmest tear of sorrow could be seen there, both knowing about the incoming separation without speaking a word. He sighed. Later he would have to explain her that he won't be in the battle himself. No sword-wiggling, only organizing and drilling. Captain Andrews had personally asked him if he would be prepared to reenlist and accompany the army as a quartermaster. That was a very honorable position, one of the highest in the army a petty officer could hold.

Why had he agreed? Boredom, dissatisfaction with his live as a civilian? Perhaps. At all events he didn't feel old in the least. Sure, his leg hurt on cold days and his joints were not as agile as years before. But he was healthy and strong as he could hope to be and on long marches he would outdistance most soldiers half his age.

Perhaps it has simply the feeling that he had to do something in this battle, something to defend his family. There would be so many soldiers in the camp at Ostagar with no experience, so many workers, commoners and peasants unused to wear armor and swing a weapon. Perhaps he would be able to save some of them from wounds and death with his knowledge.

His daughters were clearing the table, Jonny and Mary leaving to their bedroom for a last time.

"Will you go with Jonny?" Mildred's wonderful eyes rested on him. Oh, how he loved them, loved this tiny nose and these soft lips. He would miss her dearly.

He shook his head. "He'll leave tomorrow with Corporal Henken for Lothering, drilling the militia there. I'll have two more days to prepare the baggage train for Ostagar. This time I won't be at the front. Captain Andrews gave me the post of the quartermaster."

Mildred was not fully successful in suppressing her sigh of relief. "An honorable post."

He nodded. "Yes, and Andrews is a fine lad, for an officer at least." He looked sincerely at her face. "If you have any problems" he ignored her short hiss as it was the expected reaction "Kylon promised to take care of you and the girls."

"We'll be alright."

He smiled softly. "I know. But I had to ask him."

"Dumbass. Take care of yourself. If you get killed I'll come after you with my broomstick and not even hiding behind Andraste's gown will help you escape my rage."


	2. Chapter 2 A Soldier's Life

**A Soldier's Life**

_Lothering – Army Camp, three weeks before the battle of Ostagar_

It was kind of amusing to watch the young soldiers running around in hectic activity. Not that he wanted to show it too openly. Instead of that Corporal Henken forced his body to stand stark and stiff, imitating the older petty officer at his side.

"I'll take care of your Jonny, Serge." Henken tried to read any emotion from his rutted face but as always he failed. Serge loved his son, that for sure. The simple fact that he ordered his son into Henken's troop demonstrated it. But all the same Serge hat never liked any kind of nepotism. "You've a bad feeling about Ostagar, right?"

Serge slowly nodded. After some silent moment he added with a coarse voice: "The king trifles with the darkspawn threat, but I heard this Grey Warden saying that he expects a real blight with Archdemon and all." He pointed at his son: "You'll not favor him, Henken. I only want that there is someone who can be trusted not to make stupid orders and perhaps hold him back here and there. He's too similar to me in that age. He'll try to make me proud and you know that 'proud' too often ends in 'dead'."

Henken didn't answer. He knew that words weren't needed. But that Serge, his instructor and superior for nearly ten years, trusted him with the life of his only son made him very proud.

"If all goes well, you'll have nothing more to fear than some thieves or perhaps a lone deserter. But perhaps you should use the time to erect some barricades and train the militia. You'll regret it otherwise if you need them later."

Henken swayed his head pensively. "Palisades we can erect, yes. But I heard the Bann is strictly against training his villagers in weapon use." The frown was only very slight but visible, a clear indicator of Serge's displeasure. Henken shortly wondered if it was the Bann or his words that caused this reaction. To this day Serge was able to reduce him into an eight-year-old schoolboy scolded by his elementary teacher without saying a single word.

"You mean that Bann who erected his manor outside the village without any fortification? That Bann who will surely put the blame on the army if something happens to his house? I give a shit on that Bann. But if it makes you happy I'll write you an order to drill the militia. And you have the allowance to equip them with twenty bows and two quivers of arrows each. By the way you should look after the main tent. The chosen ropes are too weak. If you excuse me now."

_How can he see it from here_? Henken wondered. He was barely able to see the ropes from their position, not to speak about assuming their thickness. But he would never dare to bet about the question: did Serge actually see it or was it only his experience? Walking to the tent to chide the soldiers, he shortly looked after Serge. The older man marched straight to a mixed group of elves and humans. _What did he have in mind_? Henken shrugged, turned to his men and raised his voice …

_Lothering – Baggage Train, three weeks before the battle of Ostagar_

All in all there were five humans, young soldiers belonging to the local Bann. They were filthy and their armor in a sorry shape, something a commander like Arl Urien would never allow to exist in his army. One soldier each was holding the arms of a mature and a very young elven woman, mother and daughter as it seemed, while the remainder soldiers were shoving a man back and forth with a drunken laughter accompanying each push.

"Is this a private meeting or may I be part of it?" His calm and deep voice startled the men for a moment but seeing only a single and elderly soldier to boot let them relax again. "Shut up, old man. This is nothing for you anymore. We only want to have a bit of fun. But this spoilsport …" he pointed to the elven man.

Serge watched the man carefully. As it seemed it was the father of the young one. Healthy he was but a bit too skinny and exhausted. Surely he arrived only recently with his family, one of the many elves trying to earn some money at the army camp of Ostagar. Without showing emotions he inwardly damned the man to bring his daughter with him. Trouble was sure to happen with all these young soldiers around. "Do you need any help?" He addressed the man, not really expecting a positive answer. Serge knew this kind of man who was too proud to accept any help anyway how friendly it was meant.

Indeed the man said nothing and the soldiers' speaker, the man holding the daughter, showed his unhealthy teeth as he smiled. "See, he doesn't need any help. We're all happy here." Ignoring the man Serge looked at mother and daughter. The young elf was pleading with her eyes but dared not to say anything without her father's allowance. He would ignore her anyway. It was her father's duty to decide and if that man was too proud to accept his help …

"Please, Sir." It was the mother that broke the silence at last. With a slight nod Serge responded. "You've heard the lady. She doesn't want your attention. Hurry off and find some labor or I'll find something to do for you."

Letting the younger elf's arms go the speaker strode forward: "Look old man, we were really nice and patient and all. But bit by bit you're grinding my nerves. These are surely no ladies but simple train who…" _How can a man this large and heavy move so silently and quick_, Nessa mused? One moment he stood far away, the next he was towering over her and the soldier beside her. The soldier surely wasn't tiny but in comparison he seemed like a child. Without any forewarning Serge punched an uppercut and knocked his enemy out. Flabbergasted silence answered the action. With a very cold glare the old soldier looked around, quenching any objections. Staring at him as if he was out to eat them alive any moment, the four soldiers turned around and dragged their unconscious leader away.

Serge addressed the elven family. "If they're braver than I expect, they could try to avenge themselves. Be careful." Pondering for a moment he added: "If you're looking for work: I'm Arl Urien's quartermaster. I'm in need of trustworthy help. If you're interested look out for Pik at Ostagar. He's a red-haired elven lad from Denerim and makes errands for me. Be honest and diligent and you'll not regret to work for me." Without awaiting an answer or responding in any way to the elven mother's thanks he walked away, back to his men.

_Ostagar – Quartermaster Camp, two weeks before the battle of Ostagar_

For a few moments he allowed himself to stand inactive and be content. With only three days passed in Ostagar his post was ready to work. Still there had much to be done but his crew had worked very diligent. Nessa's family had been a lucky pull. Especially Nessa herself had been a great help. Apparently she had learned to read, write and do simple math at the chantry. Serge had chosen her to be his assistant with the preparations of the camps. The armies of Highever and Redcliffe were expected to arrive in the next days and his honor demanded that all went smoothly then. Nessa had been very resourceful and energetic in the planning and he had decided to give her some leeway in her work. _Good tools have to be used efficiently_.

But as always the silence was not to endure very long. A harsh female voice reminded him of that. With every single man in the camp believing to be the most important and his wishes to be served first, it was very refreshing to witness a woman with a downright sense of practicability. Since their first meeting he had liked and respected this old hag despite her being a mage. Not that he despised mages collectively but as any sensible man he was careful around them and tried to stand clear of them.

"Good afternoon, Senior Enchanter Wynne. May I be of any help?" Serge even allowed his face to show a smile, something he carefully reserved to a very slim count of persons. Wynne seemed a bit irritated but calmed now as she saw the elder soldier. "Good afternoon, Quartermaster. I'm sure you can help me. Over there …" She pointed at a ruin someone had called 'old temple'. He wasn't sure why because the building didn't look like a chantry but the name had stuck. "Your men use the building as a storeroom. But I know that the grey wardens want to use it for their … meetings and their joining rituals. Perhaps it would be better to store your supplies somewhere else."

"Mm, that's difficult. With all these soldiers to equip we need any place we can lay hands on. The square you wanted for your magic incantations already used up much free room. And the temple offers at least a tiny bit of protection against the weather. But we'll try to make some free space at the edge of it." Wynne smiled. "Thank you, I knew you would be sensible."

As she started to walk away Wynne turned to Serge anew: "By the way: I saw that you're drilling your young elves in weapon use. I hope you're not about to send them into the battle?" Serge smiled shortly. "Not likely! But Nessa is a good girl, undertaking much work I would normally have to do myself. This way I have a bit of spare time and everyone should be able to defend him. And Nessa is already not too bad with her daggers and bow. Most of the time she trains with Pik and I'm only there to prevent blather from spectators."

Wynne frowned: "I thought the Elves in the alienage are not allowed to own or train with weapons."

He blinked amused: "You're right and nobody would think that any alienage elf would dare to act against this law."

Wynne smiled thinly: "Certainly not."


	3. Chapter 3 Preparing the Battle

**Preparing the Battle**

_Ostagar – Quartermaster Camp, one week before the battle of Ostagar_

Nessa was happy. As she had left the Denerim Alienage with her parents after that bloody Shem evicted them from their small shack, she had expected the time in Ostagar to be awful. And that incident in Lothering nearly had proven her to be right. But then this old soldier stepped in.

At first she had been careful around him, expecting him to suddenly show his true face and try to have his way with her. Sooner or later, she had supposed, he would demand her 'to be thankful'. And his true face he had shown: grim, demanding, pushing Nessa to her limits, but also experienced, helpful and careful if needy. But the most important: he had treated Nessa as … no, not an equal, because she was his underling, but as an adult with her own opinion.

After testing Nessa's abilities for a few days he had changed into giving the elf her own tasks, demanding that they were fulfilled competently but allowing her to choose her own way in doing that. He had no problems in scolding her and she remembered more than one occasion with her ears getting crimson because of his cusses, but it had nothing to do with her being a female or an elf. He had spoken the same to his male, human underlings and that had been such a change from other Shems' behavior. And in the few cases he had nodded in approval she had been happy, a single sentence of satisfaction giving her energy for another day of back-breaking labor.

Carefully Nessa grinded her short swords Serge had given her. Her leather harness was already cleaned up after the weapon training session. Father had not been happy about her training with Pik in front of all those Shem, but somehow Serge had been able to convince him to allow it. She was getting better by the day especially after …

_Three days before_

She was exhausted. Serge knew these signs, knew that she must have been force marching for some days and not very used to this type of exertion. _Young she is, at most a year older than Nessa. And you can see that she will blossom into a beautiful maiden in the next years. _Not very tall and with a slender body, the sword at her side seemed a bit too large for her to handle. What she wore for armor could not really be called so and the boots had certainly seen better days. Good boots of soft leather not meant to be worn in mud for days. The sword seemed to be valuable and ancient and her hands were small and too soft to be used to constant hard working. A noble maiden on bad luck, that for sure she was.

The maiden obviously noticed his scrutinizing in spite of her exhaustion, a good sign as Serge noted to himself. "It is not stolen, if you think so." A nice voice educated and not like the one of a city scoundrel. "I never assumed otherwise, Milady. May I be of any help?"

For a moment she froze, wondering how he could detect … surely she didn't look very noble in the moment. Allowing himself a thin smile he watched her eying the daggers in front of her. Most of them were in good working order but nothing he would offer her to pair with her sword. Walking around he silently put a long dagger on the table, crafted from red steel and with a grip of the right size for her small hand.

While she examined the blade he rummaged around until he found bracer, leather jerkin and boots for her, all used but in good and careful groomed condition. "I … I can't buy them. I only have money for the weapon," she declined regretful.

"Who's your commander?" Who could be so uncaring in sending that girl into the fighting without proper armor?

For a moment she pondered about his question. "I suppose you mean Duncan. I'm one of the new grey warden recruits." Did he believe her? Surely grey wardens were expected to be … different. She sighed as he took away the armor. Seconds later her eyes went wide as he placed newly crafted leather armor and boots in front of her. "But take the used boots for the battle; it is better than getting your feet sour in the new ones. About paying …" he pointed at Nessa. "I expect you to do at least three training sessions with her. She should have some experience with a dual-wielding opponent. Is this okay for you?" The woman simply nodded. "That's okay. By the way: I'm Alyssa." She offered him her hand and he pressed it with great care. "Nice to meet you, Alyssa. By the way: if possible do something great in the future. I would like to tell my grandchildren later how I met 'that famous grey warden'." Alyssa smiled at him: "I'll try my very best."

_Ostagar – Grey Warden Camp, five days before the battle of Ostagar_

"Tomorrow morning you'll leave with Alistair at first light. You have to collect …" Neither Duncan nor his recruits knew how long that hulky man had been standing there, watching the group as the warden-commander instructed them what to do in the Korcari Wilds. At last Alistair noticed him and warned the others with a slight cough.

With a sigh the man strode forward, smiling shortly as Daveth tried to hide behind Jory's back. "Sorry to interrupt your meeting, warden-commander, but this man and I have something to talk about." With an approving nod Serge addressed Alyssa: "Much better now. But you should wear an old shirt under the jacket for some days else you chafe your skin with the fresh leather." Alyssa smiled and watched Serge.

His face changing to a growl he turned to Daveth: "You have something that doesn't belong to you." While Duncan stayed silent Daveth only shrugged: "That elf was quiet eager to give me the weapon." Serge snorted with disgust: "Sure he did after you tricked him into believing that you're the rightful owner. Have you no other way to get a decent weapon?"

"Look, I'm a grey warden and all and I needed a proper sword. Won't it be better to use that sword than have it lying around worthlessly?"

"Humph, you think that you're able to do other things than harassing the women in the camp?" Serge's remark caused a low laughter from Alistair and Alyssa. "You think you can use that weapon? Show me." As Daveth shot a quizzical look at the soldier, Serge added: "Try to hit me, my breast, shoulder, leg. Come on, show me your famous skill and persuade me not to shove its grip into your point of no sunshine."

Relaxed he awaited the attack, but Daveth was unsure. Drawing his newly 'gathered' sword he watched carefully the older man, unsure what skill he had to expect. Suddenly Serge burst forward, directed the sword away with his left forearm and slapped Daveth twice in the face. Instantly retreating he scolded the younger man: "Is that all you have to show? I'm not impressed. Perhaps you should better play with a spoon."

Anger showed on Daveth's face and he leapt forward, swinging his sword wildly. Despite his fast attacks the old man seemed to have no problems in batting the sword away every time, more than once reacting before Daveth really started his move. At last he gripped Daveth's arm and with a swift turn of the hand disarmed him, the sword landing in his own grip.

"Next time: new weapons have to be drilled instantly to get used to. Second learn to hide where your next attack is targeted at. And lastly: never get angry in a fight." Serge turned to Duncan: "Is he really a new recruit? And going into the wilderness with the Lady and the others?" On Duncan's short nod Serge tossed the sword to Daveth. "Next time I'll expect you to do better with it. In the meantime: speak with the Kennel Master. He needs herbs from the wilderness for his Mabari. If you collect some for him and an additional patch for me, I agree the sword to be paid. Have you any objections? I hope not. See you later." Exchanging a very quick smile with Duncan he walked away. _Perhaps he will not be killed tomorrow_.

_Ostagar – Kennel Master Camp, one day before the battle of Ostagar_

"What a stupid plan it is. I really expected something better from Loghain," Serge hissed angrily. The Kennel Master only smiled about the anger in Serge's voice. "Have you told him what you think about it?" Serge growled at his friend: "I should have. The few times I spoke with him he was quiet reasonable, sure it has to do with his commoner upbringing. But this plan … no palisades, no trenches and the mass of the archers in the second group. As if a child made that plan."

"Perhaps it has. I heard that Cailan had the idea, you know with him and the wardens in the middle and all that."

"Who had allowed him to play General in the first? A King should play statue and be nice to look at, everything else is only disturbing. And what about you and your Mabari?"

The Kennel Master looked content: "All in good health, thank you for sending this warden to collect the herbs. I only hope that Loghain's troop will attack before all my Mabari are killed. They are meant to frontal attack the advancing horde."

Unimpressed Serge mentioned: "That sounds great, for the darkspawn at least. Anybody thinking about Mabari flanking attack? No? Too bad. Dumbasses all around."

"Where will you be, Serge? Not at the front I hope."

"No, I prepare the signal fire at the tower. When the battle begins I'll support in the camp with organizing the infirmary."

"That's good to know, Serge. So at least one of us will be quiet secure."

"Mm, yes, old men to the rear."


End file.
